


An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Bar- and there is No Punchline Because this is the 80s and Everyone is Sad, Gay and Repressed

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (kinda), 1980s, Alcohol, Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Crisis of Faith, Discussion of the AIDS crisis, Don’t copy to another site, Gay Bar, Historical, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Queer History, Questionable Fashion Choices, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Swearing, Timestamp, my approximate knowledge of Christianity and the 80s rears it's under-researched head, not altogether as depressing as it sounds, sex references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 18:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19183420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: “So you’re not here to dance.” Crowley ducks his head, his long and impressivelyvoluminoushair tumbling about his face as he nudges his aviators down his nose, peering at Aziraphale with those cunning yellow eyes over the top of them. He smirks like the wily old serpent he is, savouring the next words he speaks. “Now, what else could possibly lure aconfirmed bachelorsuch as yourself to an establishment like this?”In which Aziraphale gravitates to the comfort of a queer space, and winds up in need of further comforting.





	An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Bar- and there is No Punchline Because this is the 80s and Everyone is Sad, Gay and Repressed

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooo!!!!
> 
> So! This is very short (because I'm currently in the middle of two giant multichapters YIKES) and also possibly a little rough because while I've long loved the book and adored the show, I have never written these two before. But I got a great prompt from cipollakate, and couldn't resist doing a little fic and art for it- so I hope you enjoy reading it at much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> The prompt was 'Crowley and Aziraphale in a historical setting that we didn't see in the show'. Naturally I had to go for 80s- I’m a sucker for the 80s aesthetic. So this is basically another timestamp from the Ep3 opener (although my Crowley and Az are also a little book influenced, I haven’t struck my perfect balance yet), taking place after the rest. 
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS/WARNINGS- this isn't an explicit fic but it does address some difficult and upsetting topics, occasionally in quite an unflinching fashion, so if that's not what you're into best click back now! If you decide to carry on and read though, I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts at the end! 
> 
> Enjoy <3

“It’s not always this quiet.”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees mildly, swiping a bead of condensation from the rim of his glass. Perhaps he ought to be more startled by an agent of the darkness materialising at his back but, well, it’s only _Crowley._ Besides, he saw him not a decade ago, hardly long enough to let one’s guard down. “I popped in… ooh, six, seven years ago? Positively bustling.”

The demon makes a noise of amusement as he slithers over to join Aziraphale at the bar. Not _literally_ slither, of course- even a roomful of humans would likely notice the presence of a large black snake in the middle of a club, and they can be _awfully_ good at explaining away unusual sights. But in all his years of knowing the demon, Aziraphale has never _quite_ encountered another word that describes his walk so aptly. It is somewhere in between a slither and a saunter, and it is so uniquely _Crowley_ that Aziraphale could no doubt pick his silhouette out of a lineup by movement alone. Mind you, his stature might help somewhat; Crowley manages to be _angular_ in a way no human can quite manage, though this does nothing to affect his fluidity. “Wouldn’t have put a _gentlemen_ like yourself in a place like this; bit _loud,_ isn’t it? Bit… _uncouth._ Do you even dance?”

“In theory, yes, but sadly the gavotte has been rather out of style these last few decades,” Aziraphale tuts disappointedly.

“So you’re not here to dance.” Crowley ducks his head, his long and _impressively_ voluminous hair tumbling about his face as he nudges his aviators down his nose, peering at Aziraphale with those cunning yellow eyes over the top of them. He smirks like the wily old serpent he is, savouring the next words he speaks. “Now, what else could possibly lure a _confirmed bachelor_ such as yourself to an establishment like this?”

Aziraphale clucks, and quietly hopes that his cheeks don’t look as pink as his Shirley Temple. “Fancied a change of scene. Being somewhere a tad more… _lively.”_

“Bit late for that, I’m afraid,” the demon mutters, popping his sunglasses back into place and signalling the bartender. Either he comes here a lot or he just gave the unsuspecting man a little nudge of the old demonic wiles, because within seconds he has a scotch in his hand and no money gone from his pocket. “These places are dying with their clientele.”

Frowning disapprovingly, Aziraphale deposits some change on the counter to cover the scotch. “Yes, so I hear- awful business, simply awful. One of yours, is it?”

Crowley actually looks _offended-_ insomuch as a being of evil _can_ look offended by an accusation of, well, evildoing. “Absolutely bloody not- think I’m desperate to wipe out the only places I can have any decent fun in this miserable country, do you?”

“Well, it _does_ seem to be rather in your lot’s wheelhouse.”

“I could say the same for you- plagues and cullings and the like, bit popular with your boss, aren’t they?”

“It’s not a…” Aziraphale trails off, fingers tightening reflexively on his glass. “We… thought, perhaps, it was your doing.”

“Oh, did _‘we’_ , now?” Crowley snipes, tapping his nails on the bar- black, glossy, rounded like snake scales. “Have you even talked to that bloody ponce anytime this century?”

Aziraphale should _probably_ smite the fiend for referring to the Archangel Gabriel as a ‘bloody ponce’, but he can hardly punish him for speaking the truth. That would be rather ironic, wouldn’t it? “Well, no. But I’m sure he’s as perturbed by these unfortunate happenings as any of us.”

Crowley snorts derisively, but doesn’t dig any deeper. It’s just as well, really- at this moment in time, Aziraphale isn’t sure he has the strength of will to come to the archangel’s defense. “Well. It’s _not_ us. It’s _definitely_ not me, and _probably_ not any of my lot- not really their style, see. Killing all these people left and right, doesn’t really put souls in the pits, does it? Our job is to corrupt ‘em while they’re _alive.”_

“Right, well…”

“Of course, you _could_ argue that the uh, _means_ of their demise is indicative of sin,” Crowley carries right on, gesticulating in such a way that he sends half his scotch across the counter. “If you were feeling _particularly_ closed-minded. But see, I’ve _been_ up where you are now, and, ah, I happen to know that _They_ aren’t _half_ as bothered about ‘the queers’ as Their little fans down here on Earth seem to think, am I right?”

“Well, yes, there was that unfortunate business with the botched translation-”

“So! Gay sex, not in _itself_ a sin, yeah?”

Aziraphale hums noncommittally.

“Ah, I know what you’re thinking- _sex out of wedlock,_ that old chestnut. True, there’s a lot of that going round. Of course, that’s mostly down to _your_ followers thinking letting the poor sods get married is against Their wishes, but let’s ignore that for the moment. So, assuming that all who wanted to get married _could,_ and that all these poor buggers are just wilfully, uh, _buggering-”_

_“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale chides.

“What? S’what they’re doing.”

“Well, you needn’t be so _crass.”_

“Yeah, yeah, naughty demon, bad words, whatever, whatever- so, assuming that all these folks er, _deserve_ this for sleeping around, tell me; why not hit everyone with it? ‘Cause you and I _both_ know there’s plenty of that on _both_ sides.”

“Both-?”

“Yeah, both sides. Y’know, the queers and the, the…”

“Heterosexuals?”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “ _That’sss_ what they call themselves? Sounds like a medical condition.”

Aziraphale peers at him suspiciously. “Are you _drunk,_ Crowley?”

The demon sniffs, scratching his cheek with the hand still cradling his glass. “Little bit.”

Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly, but doesn’t begrudge him another swig of his scotch. He clearly isn’t _too_ far gone; he’d be hissing much more if he were utterly plastered.

“Anyway, what was I saying? Right. Both sides do a lot of the ol’ _reckless fornication._ Have done since they learned what all the bits did- well, _you_ were there in the Garden, those two were at it like _rabbits,”_ says Crowley, chuckling. “And I can tell you right now that the _heterosexuals_ have a _lot_ more adultery going on. Well, they would, being as they’re the ones allowed to get married by ‘n large, but you get my point. There’s sinners all across the board, in’t there? S’not just this lot. So, why single ‘em out for the next big reign of fury, eh?”

Aziraphale fidgets uncomfortably on his barstool. “It’s… not for us to say. Or know, even. It’s-”

_“Ineffable?”_ the demon scoffs, eyebrows arching over his shades.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale primly, not looking Crowley in the eye. “All part of the Plan.”

“The _Ineffable_ Plan.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley snorts, empties his glass, and signals sharply for another. “Ironic, really, considering the situation. This whole business is about as _effed_ as it could get.”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond; if he opens his mouth, he’ll find himself agreeing. Instead he turns his body slightly, taking a look around the establishment. Nearly empty- practically unheard of, on a Saturday night in Soho. Nearly, but not quite. A few brave stragglers cling to the party spirit; a couple of young lads kiss ardently on the dancefloor, hands roaming every which way. Some way beyond them, the rest of the evening’s clientele- a few small huddles of two to four persons- hunker around high tables, nursing pints and cocktails and speaking in hushed tones, drowned out by the doggedly pounding music. Though many of them smile, even occasionally laugh, there is not a one that doesn’t carry an invisible line of tension across their shoulders, or a haunted look in their eyes. It is eerily reminiscent, Aziraphale can’t help but notice, of the faces he’s seen in the wake of great battles. No matter the century, no matter the cause; there is a certain look that only those who’ve seen death carry.

He wonders, of all the friends and lovers these people have lost, how many got the chance to say their goodbyes.

“Maybe time just _flies_ ‘round here,” mutters Crowley, having already downed half his new drink by the time Aziraphale turns back around. “But I reckon it’s a bit soon for another Sodom and Gomorrah. Could’ve left it another century or so, let the first one really _settle,_ y’know?”

Sighing, Aziraphale turns his eyes Heavenwards, tapping his fingers on the glass. It isn’t Their doing _directly,_ he’s sure of it- true, the Almighty has certainly had a few _strops_ in the past, overreacted slightly perhaps, but it has been a _long_ time since They’ve done anything quite so… _ruthless._ It’s been _centuries_ since They last killed so many people in cold blood- there have been _hiccups,_ he supposes, but this seems rather… well, _unnecessary._ Except, well, either They _are_ responsible for it, or They are doing nothing to stop it and therefore it _must_ serve a purpose. They wouldn’t let a tragedy of this scale play out without intervention were it not a part of the Plan, surely? Of course not.

Of course not…

“Angel?”

Aziraphale turns his eyes to Crowley- he barely has to lower them, given the demon’s height as he stands at the bar. Crowley looks down at him in turn. It’s always rather amused Aziraphale; that he must look up to the demon, and that Crowley must look down upon an angel. So subtly _improper_ that no one would ever notice- though they might look twice, and wonder just why the sight of two men in innocent conversation fills them with such quiet confusion.

“Was it fun here?” Aziraphale blurts, before he’s quite sure what he’s asking. “Before…?”

Crowley looks equally startled by the enquiry, but nods. “Yeah. It was. Still is, actually- you’ve come on a bad night. Truth is, you can’t _stop_ this lot from partying- they had to tear down the establishment brick by brick for the right to, and they won’t give it up for anything.” He smiles, although this smile is a rather different beast to his usual reptilian smirk. It’s… _fond._ Almost soft. “Dancing in the face of destruction. That’s humans for you.”

Aziraphale smiles, warmth blossoming in his chest. “Humans...” he murmurs, cupping his glass close to his chest.

“Nutters, the lot of them,” says Crowley, through a false sneer; Aziraphale’s known him long enough to be able to tell when it’s the real thing.

“Indeed,” he replies, beaming. “Brilliant, aren’t they?”

Crowley snorts. But when Aziraphale gives him a look, he begrudgingly relents. “Hmph. They have their moments. What are you _wearing?”_

“Pardon?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, tilting his head as he gives Aziraphale a visible once-over. Glancing down at himself and his rather charming new shell suit, Aziraphale frowns.

“What’s wrong with it?” No response. Aziraphale tuts. “This is _very_ practical attire for exercise, I’ll have you know.”

_“You_ were _exercising?”_ Crowley, well, _crows._

“Is that a problem?”

“What were you doing?” the demon snickers, cocking his leather-clad hip against the bar. “Playing _rounders?_ Badminton?”

“I was…”

Crowley looks at him expectantly. Aziraphale can feel himself blushing, and clears his throat. “Power walking.”

The demon’s cackle all but drowns out the music. Aziraphale glowers at him. “What’s so funny about that? It’s rather invigorating, I’ll have you know.” No, that doesn’t seem to be discouraging the demon’s infernal chortling. “Well, I do need _something_ to do besides read, you know- I’ve got through every book ever published. They only bring out so many new ones a day.”

_“Power walking,”_ Crowley wheezes, shaking his head, his long hair catching the strobelights. _“Ssspectacular.”_

Aziraphale sniffs, swilling his drink around the glass. “It’s good for the mind,” he says huffily, averting his eyes from the wretched fiend. “And the stamina- certainly makes lifting those first editions easier.” Mildly perturbed when he doesn’t receive a snarky comeback, he glances once more to Crowley- and finds the demon unlaughing, pink-cheeked, and looking for all the world as if he’s been hit by a bus. “I say; anything wrong, dear boy?”

Crowley makes a curious choking sound, that might be a laugh but sounds a tad more long-suffering. "Nope," he says, popping the 'p'. "Nothing _wrong_ , s'just... well, normally when blokes at this bar talk about their _stamina_..."

_Oh_. Face flooding- honestly, these corporeal forms give _everything_ away - and matching Crowley's not-laugh, Aziraphale takes an inelegant swig of his own drink. "Hm," he mumbles, putting the fancy glass down disappointedly and digging around for his wallet. "All of a sudden I find myself in need of something _stronger_."

"Put it away, angel," the demon breezes, gesticulating towards the bartender. "S'on me. I owe you one, anyway."

"You owe me _several_ , in fact," says Aziraphale, folding his hands primly on the bartop and gracing Crowley with a beatific smile. "But, I shall absolve you. _If_ you pay this poor fellow."

Crowley pouts. " _Must_ I?"

"It's just as you said- these are trying times," says Aziraphale, smiling sadly. "These establishments need our patronage now more than ever."

Crowley complains, of course, but obediently conjures a five pound note from somewhere nonetheless. "Ridiculous," he grumbles, slapping it down. "A demon can get a lot of flack _paying_ for things... what's it gonna be, then?"

"What are you having?"

"I'm on the scotch- they have a delicious single malt."

"Ooh, sounds delightful; I'll join you."

The drinks materialise scarcely a blink later, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes- "There's really no need to hurry the man."

"Decade's nearly gone, angel," says Crowley, raising his new glass. "It's not gonna hang about."

Aziraphale smiles fondly, and mirrors him. "Oh, I think it can wait..."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fairly short space of time and didn't have much to spare for research/fact-checking so I hope it isn't too clunky! Come chat to me if you liked it- as usual I'm on tumblr @dontoffendthebees, and I'm not always the best at replying or getting to things but I'm always happy to get messages/prompts!
> 
> Thanks lovelies <3


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